The Dervish House (61 page)
Authors: Ian Mcdonald
‘I know. I’ve known for years. Oh, I never had proof, no one ever spoke, everyone who was involved in 1980 knew what talking could do. In those first few weeks in Athens, it was mad then, I was mad then, and I did blame you for Meryem’s death. I hated you, I hated what you’d done. I hated that I’d loved you and you had betrayed that. I think what I hated was what had happened to Turkey, to Istanbul, to the world I had known; and knowing I could never go back.’
‘Did you?’
‘What?’
‘Love me?’
‘Georgios, we were twenty-one years old, we were wild, we were dazzled, it was a long hot summer, we knew nothing. We were kids. Thinking that a few placards and leaflets and some poetry in a café would blow the generals away like chaff. We were not serious people. The police, the army, the generals, they were serious people. We had no chance. That was when I realized what you must have done. And then I felt guilty, for so many years, that I had lived because Meryem had died, and that you’d been forced to make that choice.’
Georgios’ heart is hammering. His hands shake, yet the the world seems suspended around him, lights hanging like mosque lanterns, wheels upon wheels of light. The foundations on which his life has stood for forty-seven years are swept away. What has been, what could have been, are churned up together. The life he led, the life he imagined and then put away, folded neat as an unused wedding suit; those years, those years.
‘A word would have been enough. A letter, an email, even a call. Just a word. I thought the reason you never came back was because of me.’
‘No, oh no, not you, never you,’ Ariana says. She reaches across the table to clasp Georgios’ hands in hers.
‘Do you think . . .’
‘Don’t think. Don’t ask. That will kill you. We have the lives we have and that’s all we can know. We have those lives because of what you had to do. We were young and thought we were invincible and and we threw ourselves into the gears of history and it ground us up. But don’t ever regret. For a few moments we were the most brilliant stars in the sky.’
Ariana Sinanidis suddenly shivers.
‘Oh, a chill breeze there.’
‘Thank God,’ Georgios says. ‘Çarkdönümü Fırtanası.’
‘The Storm of the Turning Windmills,’ Ariana says and pulls her scarf around her bare shoulders.
Friday
9
This morning Adem Dede Square is blessed. The air is clear and cool and smells fresh as a loaf or a morning newspaper. Every sound is crystalline, distinct; the Istanbul drone opens up into layers and lines and levels. The rumble of traffic, the conversation of radios. Footsteps on staircases. A voice shouting for someone to get a move on. A car engine suddenly bursts into life then settles into a tick-over. The hiss of the gas burners in the rival çayhanes, the moil of boiling kettles. Aydin turning the crisp pages of the morning daily at his stand. The drip of water into the fountain’s scalloped basin. The old dervish house clicks and creaks as its timbers expand in the sun. Birds; sparrows shrieking and dipping low through the alleys and soks. High over all a blackbird flings his song over the rooftops toward the Golden Horn.
Father Ioannis looks up; the storks still glide over the ragged quadrilateral of sky above Adem Dede Square, sliding down to their ancient nesting grounds among the grave pillars of ancient Eyup. The Christ of the Immanent. The sacrament of silence is the sacrament of hearing.
‘God save all here,’ he greets the Greeks of Eskiköy around their little table. ‘That is a much more seasonable day.’ He sits heavily down on his low stool. Lefteres does not return his greeting. He sits hunched on his stool, shoulders up, head down, a sick vulture of a man. His face is yellow, his eyes bulging. His left hand covers a laminated A
4
sheet. The edge of the sheet is worked with a pretty floral design and there is a hole from a thumb-tack at the top. ‘What’s with our friend?’
4
sheet. The edge of the sheet is worked with a pretty floral design and there is a hole from a thumb-tack at the top. ‘What’s with our friend?’
‘They made him take it down,’ Bülent calls from the kitchen, pouring Father Ioannis his tea.
‘Who, what?’ the priest asks.
‘Those tarikat boys,’ Constantin says. ‘From over there.’ He nods across the square to the shadowed mouth of Güneşli Sok.
‘The Hasgüler kid?’ Father Ioannis stirs his tea. The sugar crystals whirl briefly before dissolving. ‘The so-called Shaykh Ismet?’
‘The so-called Shaykh Ismet has a lot of friends,’ Bülent says. ‘They faced down some hood trying to muscle his way into the square.’
‘It was insulting, irreligious and inappropriate.’ Lefteres speaks now. ‘It was disrespectful of women. Disrespectful of women! Those Wahhabis! In future all matters of community policing must be referred to the tarikat of Adem Dede. The tarikat of Adem Dede? Car mechanics and house painters and ignorant little gecekondu gobshites who never got a day’s education past medrese. Street judges? Street law? When you were born on this street, when you live in this street, when you’ve worked there for fifty years, when you’ve seen and remember all the changes that have happened to this street and city, when you know the name on every door in every house, when you sit and take tea on this street every morning in life; then,
then, maybe
you can presume to talk to me about street law. They’re not from here, they don’t understand how it works. It’s not kadıs and community courts and street shariat. It’s knowing someone here, having a word there. This is still a shame society. Shame works. Not “street law.” Street law? I am the fucking street law, your pardon, Father.’
then, maybe
you can presume to talk to me about street law. They’re not from here, they don’t understand how it works. It’s not kadıs and community courts and street shariat. It’s knowing someone here, having a word there. This is still a shame society. Shame works. Not “street law.” Street law? I am the fucking street law, your pardon, Father.’
But everyone at the low brass table knows that Lefteres’ power is broken. He has been challenged and beaten. The time of the lampoon is over. This is the age of divine law.
‘They have guns now,’ Bülent says darkly. He pulls up an empty stool. ‘A lot’s happened since yesterday morning, Father. The police have closed down the Art Gallery.’
‘Ms Erkoç’s?’
‘They arrested her. Seems she was knee deep in smuggling. They raided it yesterday morning just after you left, took away boxloads of stuff, sealed the place up. Then, just as suddenly, they unsealed it and brought it all back and it seems she’s in the clear.’
‘How does that happen?’ Father Ioannis asks.
‘Gas trader husband,’ Constantin interjects. ‘Works for Ozer. There’s more to this story.’
Bülent leans low over the table to draw in his audience.
‘Then the girl who lives in apartment two, you know, the one sometimes wears the short shorts, she has this run-in with some gangster, just there down Güneşli Sok. That Ismet and his mosque mates turn out, there’s a showdown and we find out they’ve armed themselves.’
‘God and his mother have mercy on us,’ Father Ioannis says and every Greek at the table crosses himself.
‘It’s on the back of that they take the lampoon down.’
‘I’m not drinking in this teashop again,’ Lefteres declares. ‘This is not a safe place for Greeks.’
‘Tell him about the kid,’ Constantin says quickly but Lefteres has spoken everyone’s fear.
‘Necdet Hasgüler isn’t the only one who’s gone missing,’ Bülent says. ‘The boy who lives in apartment five.’
‘The deaf one?’ Father Ioannis asks.
‘He’s not deaf,’ Bülent says and Lefteres, Constantin and even Father Ioannis chorus,
he’s got a heart condition
. ‘It seems he went off to afternoon school same as usual. Except,’ (and here Bülent leans forward to draw the old Greeks into conspiracy) ‘he never made it back. His mother goes to pick him up, she waits, she waits some more, she waits a long time. Finally she goes into the school. Sure doesn’t it turn up that the boy never made it in at all? He’s gone. Disappeared. His ceptep’s off, there’s no way of tracking him. Şekure Hanım is distraught, what with his condition and everything. Remember: any sudden loud noise, and the electrical patterns in his heart go berserk. An engine backfiring, builders dropping stuff into a dumpster; those could kill him. Of course they call the police. That’s the third time this week they’ve been round here.’
he’s got a heart condition
. ‘It seems he went off to afternoon school same as usual. Except,’ (and here Bülent leans forward to draw the old Greeks into conspiracy) ‘he never made it back. His mother goes to pick him up, she waits, she waits some more, she waits a long time. Finally she goes into the school. Sure doesn’t it turn up that the boy never made it in at all? He’s gone. Disappeared. His ceptep’s off, there’s no way of tracking him. Şekure Hanım is distraught, what with his condition and everything. Remember: any sudden loud noise, and the electrical patterns in his heart go berserk. An engine backfiring, builders dropping stuff into a dumpster; those could kill him. Of course they call the police. That’s the third time this week they’ve been round here.’
‘There go the property prices,’ Constantin grumbles.
‘Now, the police are playing it down, being discreet, just in case the lad hasn’t wandered off or met with an accident, God between him and evil.’
‘God and his Mother.’ Father Ioannis kisses his cross.
‘If anything’s happened to the kid, those Islamists will blame us,’ Lefteres says.
‘It turns out there’s someone may know where the Durukan kid is,’ Bülent says. ‘Our very own Professor Ferentinou. Do you remember all that stuff we were talking about? Robots and gas terrorism and people who see djinn and that tram bombing back on Monday. Georgios thinks it’s all connected, and he let the kid in on his theories. Filled his head with all kinds of nonsense. And now the boy’s decided to go and play detective.’
‘How old is the boy?’ Father Ioannis asks.
‘Nine.’
‘Well, the police will have it in hand now, thanks be to God,’ the priest says.
Bülent grimaces.
‘It’s not quite so simple. You see, this is breaking news. On the ticker. Georgios only found out this morning that Can was gone - you know how close he is to the boy.’
‘Too close,’ Lefteres growls.
‘I’m confused here,’ Father Ioannis says. ‘Georgios always makes it his business to know everything that goes on here. He always says that it’s like his map of the universe. How could he not have seen police arriving?’
‘He wasn’t here, was he?’ Bülent says. The Father frowns, puzzled.
‘Ariana,’ Constantin whispers. Father Ioannis’ wild grey eyebrows raise.
‘He’s over with Şekure Hanım now,’ Bülent says. ‘They’re going to go and find him. The father’s talking to the cops.’
‘What do they think they can do?’ Father Ioannis opines. ‘These things are best left to the police.’
‘If you had a child, you’d go,’ Bülent says. ‘Whatever the police tell you.’
Father Ioannis touches his brow. ‘Thank God and his Mother, the kid’s all right.’
‘I didn’t say he was all right,’ Bülent says. ‘I said he had an idea where he is.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Over on the Asian half. In the same place as the people who lifted Necdet Hasgüler. He said something about a terror plot?’
Lefteres looks up, startled from his impotent old-man anger.
‘What now?’
A man is striding across Adem Dede Square. He’s young, short, hair prematurely receding, a heart-shaped face and a small moustache, all of which make him look older than his years and lend him a comic air, as if he is aware that the world is his audience. No one knows who he is but it’s clear from his stride that he knows what he wants. He wants the Greeks of Adem Dede Square.
‘Does anyone here know Necdet Hasgüler?’
Bülent gets up from his seat slowly.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘My name is Mustafa Bağli. I work with Necdet. At the Levent Business Rescue Centre. He didn’t turn up at work yesterday, and again today. I’m worried something bad may have happened to him.’
The four men at the table trade glances.
‘Something bad did happen,’ Bülent says carefully. ‘On Wednesday night he was abducted.’
This Mustafa’s eyes widen. ‘Was it the police?’
‘Why do you ask?’ Bülent says.
‘Because I saw the police take away one of the other ones.’ Excitement blurs his words.
‘The other ones?’ Lefteres asks.
‘The other ones who’d been caught by the tram bombing. The Peri Lady of Ereğli. Necdet sees djinn, she sees peri and fairies and wee folk. We went to see her and the police raided the place. Took her away. I think Necdet may be in great danger.’
‘Necdet is in very great danger,’ Lefteres says. His mood has brightened, like the Storm of Mother Mary clearing the bruise-dark skies of autumn. He has a purpose again. ‘It wasn’t police lifted Necdet.’ He jerks his head at a disturbance across the square where a little silvery gas-powered three-wheeler trundles from its garage on to cobbled Vermilion-Maker Lane. ‘There’s the man you want. Quick, catch him. Tell him what you told me. Before they get away!’
Mustafa salutes his thanks to the teashop men, sprints across the square, shouting and waving at the slow-moving citicar, low on its suspension, unaccustomed to Georgios Ferentinou’s weight. He runs up beside it, raps the glass. The car stops. The customers of the Adem Dede çayhane watch the discussion through the open window. Mustafa clambers in. The car sags lower as it resumes its journey down steep and cobbly Vermilion-Maker Lane.
‘So, let me see if I’ve got this right: a mum, a retired professor and someone from a business rescue centre are taking on terrorists,’ Father Ioannis says. ‘I only hope the police stop them before they do any serious harm to themselves. What is a business rescue centre anyway?’
‘Never mind that,’ Constantin rasps. ‘I want to know what went on at his meeting with Ariana Sinanidis.’
Father Ioannis fingers knots in his prayer rope, slipping them through, one by one. Blessings by their nature are fleeting. Only God is eternal, and Istanbul.
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